


The Warmth of a Hug

by vodka_and_some_sass



Series: Tom Gives You . . . [1]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Angst, Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Online Teaching, Pandemics, Quarantine, situational depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29290167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodka_and_some_sass/pseuds/vodka_and_some_sass
Summary: Tom Gives You… is a series of unconnected stories that you can read for when you are in a certain situation, or want to feel a certain way. It’s based on ‘Open When’ letters and I hope you find comfort in reading them the way I found in writing them!Nothing was the same during a pandemic, even if, as a university lecturer, you were teaching things that you had taught over and over again. But somedays are worse than the others. When Tom comes home, he holds you together when you feel like your world is falling apart.
Relationships: Tom Hiddleston/Reader
Series: Tom Gives You . . . [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2151060
Kudos: 12





	The Warmth of a Hug

You should have known better than to let the bright sun and the pretty blue sky of the morning trap you into believing that it would be a good day. Mondays are never good days, you knew that, and yet, like a green fool, you believed that maybe this Monday would be good. And you held on to that belief as you kissed Tom gently on his lips, nuzzling your nose against his as he got ready to leave the house. You still worried about him, about the fact that he had to go and film during a pandemic, but you also knew that he took every precaution very seriously, right from wearing a mask to sanitising any surface he had to touch. You assumed he did it because after nearly a five-month delay in filming, he could not afford to be sick now. But Tom did it because he was less worried about contracting the virus than he was about giving it to you.

You watched as the car pulled away, Tom waving at you with his face mostly covered by the practical black mask he preferred, and then you decided to get down to business. After giving Bobby a bowl of food, you stretched out your muscles before settling into the ergonomic chair that Tom had insisted on buying for you when you realised this pandemic was not going away any time soon. The first thing you noticed was your email overflowing with messages. Going through them one by one, it was evident that one of your classes, a group of forty students in their second year of university, was collectively panicking about the deadline of the assignment that had initially been set before the world fell into chaos. You had five minutes before your first class for the day and you used the time to send a single collective mail to your students with a revised submission date. You made it just in time to log into your next class, and you tried very hard not to let the wall of black screens and muted mic symbols bring you down. But twenty minutes of talking into what seemed like the void, you were beginning to lose the cheer and pep from the morning. By the end of the forty-five-minute class, you were tired and almost irrationally angry. You knew that the pandemic was hitting everyone, and there was nothing anyone could do about it, but when you asked the students if they had any questions at the end of the class, you were met with a thick wall of silence, something that had never happened in your classes before. It made you feel like the weekend of reading and gathering information, finding jokes and relevant pop-culture references to keep the class lively was a futile endeavour, for it was reaping no results. Grateful for the short break you had before your next lecture, you brewed yourself a cup of tea and found some pudding.

You were deep into a book about the similarities of Christianity and the medieval Nordic religion when you heard your phone ping. You were late for an online meeting for the lecturers in the department. You logged into the meeting and earned an admonishment from the Dean of Studies. The embarrassment tugged your spirits down again. The meeting was long, and as one of the younger lecturers in the department, your suggestions were often overlooked by your seniors. Frustration began to build within you because the older scholars did not want to let go of traditional examination techniques and syllabi in favour of something that would be more conducive to the new situation that the world was being forced into. The final blow came when the head of your department asked you to stand down. You could feel your face heat with shame and it took all of your strength not to cry. When it finally ended, you were ready for some more tea, having missed lunch. As you began to set up the kettle, your phone rang again. The call was from another junior lecturer who needed you to fill in for him. You reluctantly put away your cup and sat back down at your laptop. The pounding behind your eyes made it difficult for you to keep track of what you were saying and you lost your thread completely for a moment when you heard the front door click open and the familiar sound of Bobby greeting Tom before he showered. He did that every evening, heading straight to the shower before he would hug or kiss you, just to be on the safe side. But the distraction was enough for you to need to ask a student to repeat her question and the irritation in her tone pinched you. You bit your tongue and gathered yourself enough to reply to her, and then dismissed the class early. Slamming your laptop shut, wincing at the thought of what would happen if your screen broke, you buried your face in your hands and swallowed a sob.

It was the smell of Tom’s soap that told you he was behind you before his warm hands touched your shoulders. Strong fingers rubbed a knot that had formed at the base of your neck before soft lips pressed a kiss to your cheek. His damp curls tickled your hands and then he gently lifted you out of the chair to stand before him.

His arms wrapped around you as he pulled you close to his chest. You were short enough that your head tucked into his neck, just under his chin and he was broad enough that when he tightened his arms around you, you felt like you were being engulfed by everything Tom; his smell, his warmth and his strength.

“Rough day?” He asked softly, and you felt the question in the vibration of his chest more than you heard it. You nodded weakly into his chest and his arms drew tighter around you. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head. “No. I’m just tired.” Guilt flooded you as you realised that if you were tired, then Tom was bound to be exhausted. His work was much more demanding than yours was, more physical and strenuous and –

“Stop thinking so much, darling.” Again, you felt Tom’s voice more than you heard it. “Just because I am tired, does not mean you cannot be tired as well.” Large, warm hands found your skin under the blouse you were wearing and rubbed slow circles. You never could understand how he did it, reading your mind as if your thoughts were written on your face in Times New Roman print at 12 points. You felt him chuckle quietly at your silence and you knew he was doing it again, reading your thoughts with whatever telepathic magic he had. “May I make a proposition?”

You hummed in response. You knew you were going to agree with him, no matter what he said.

“Let me brew us both some fresh tea, and you can order some cheeseburgers for dinner. And we don’t have to move from the sofa except to open the door for the delivery.”

You could not deny the appeal of that plan. Ten minutes later, you were both on the large blue sofa, your cup of tea cradled in your hands and Tom’s cup on the table beside you, Bobby at Tom’s side. You were in Tom’s lap, sitting sideways in the crook of his arm that held a book, your head resting on his shoulder while he marked the lines of the poem he was reading to you with the finger of his free hand.

_The time will come_

_when, with elation_

_you will greet yourself arriving_

_at your own door, in your own mirror_

_and each will smile at the other’s welcome,_

_and say, sit here. Eat._

_You will love again the stranger who was your self._

_Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart_

_to itself, to the stranger who has loved you_

_all your life, whom you ignored_

_for another, who knows you by heart._

_Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,_

_the photographs, the desperate notes,_

_peel your own image from the mirror._

_Sit. Feast on your life._

His voice exuded warmth and love as he read Walcott’s words to you, his body shielding you from the world that sometimes reached through the screens into your house to wrap its fingers around your windpipe. His hands putt away the book and held you close. His favourite poem had grown to become your favourite as well, and you read it to each other when you felt like the other needed a reminder that they were not alone, that they were loved and cherished and that sometimes, it would take a while, a hug and cup of tea to remember that.


End file.
